Waiting
by Glockenspielium
Summary: Everyone's so stupid. Sherlock's coming home and John knows he is, no matter what anyone else tries to tell him.


John sits patiently at his chair.

He can do that.

The desk, the laptop, the books and cushions, everything is right, everything is perfect. He's even angled the music stand so the sunlight won't bother Sherlock while he's playing. The kettle is always warm and there are pots of tea everlasting, biscuits too.

Now all he has to do is wait.

He can do that.

The paper has been delivered, as usual, but he stopped reading it ages ago. No point in getting your information from a false source. The reporters were liars and the photographers manipulated your mind, blunting you, tricking you- but not him.

Not John Watson.

He'd learnt so much and he knew better than the rest of them. 

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever else remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

The door opens and he can tell that it's Sarah from her loud shoes and louder perfume. Hardly a genius deduction- but that's okay, he's not the genius, he's never needed to be the genius.

That's Sherlock's job.

Perhaps, he considers as she nods in greeting and sits down in the chair opposite him (Sherlock's chair, but he'll let it pass, just this once), he should be envious of his intelligence, his charm, his wit, but he's never felt anything but lucky to be Sherlock's friend.

Maybe God just loves him.

"Hello." She smiles, wearily. That's new.

A caring tone then.

"Hello Sarah, it's been a while hasn't it! How is the clinic going?"

He watches her face fall subtly behind the carefully maintained cheeriness and once again regrets ever dragging her into the messy affair his life has become.

"Fine, fine- but thanks…' She drags her restless fingers through the brown hair; nervous? "I don't know if he called you but Mycroft-" an impertinent snort, "Will be here soon and don't be like, that he wants to help you."

John rubs his thigh unconsciously, nails digging into the denim, "I don't want his help."

I don't want your help either, he thinks, but he's still managed to maintain some sense of decorum, despite his roommate's dismal manners. 

_I dislike being outnumbered. It makes for too much stupid in the room._

A few moments later and the brother is there. John can feel his posture alter instinctively; his arms cross over his chest, mirroring just how open he felt to this intrusion.

"John."

It's hardly a greeting, more of a reprimand, but he's done nothing wrong, so he ignores it.

"You might want to throw out those biscuits, yes?" John also chooses to ignore this quip. "Definitely past their due by date."

Sarah, unsurprisingly, shoots Mycroft a dirty look. Then (surprisingly) offers her seat to him, which he graciously declines, the slimy jerk.

"And how are you?" His tone is so patronising John wants to slap him, but instead offers a non-committal shrug of his shoulders.

He looks up for a moment- and is genuinely surprised to see that Mycroft looks almost sad. Mournful, even.

It feels like forever that John's hated the man sitting before him; it's coloured his judgment so harshly he can't even remember feeling any other way. He frowns and shakes his head sharply, as if trying to clear a nasty smear from his vision.

"John?"

Concern? Very un-Mycroft.

Must be some trick he's playing.

Well. He won't trick the best friend of Sherlock Holmes so easily.

 _Everyone's so stupid._

Sarah stands, tugging on Mycroft's jacket like a small child, alone and afraid. "Let's leave him be, he'd like that, wouldn't you John?"

He nods, no point denying it. Anyway, he doesn't want them to be here when Sherlock gets back, it'd ruin the entire evening. Mrs. Hudson would probably have a heart attack if he took to the wall again.

Mycroft.

Brotherly jealously is biblical, it seems to have existed as long as brothers exist. It could only be mad jealously which had prompted Mycroft to act so cruelly, so heartlessly, and John would never forgive him for that.

Sherlock might be a difficult brother to handle, but he was certainly not trouble enough to warrant Mycroft trying to convince John that Sherlock had died! Was it because he was jealous that Sherlock had a mate?

The more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. Mycroft must be terribly lonely; genius craves an audience! It would be enough to make you mad, to see your younger brother blessed with companionship, to find yourself left alone after so many years of tidying up after him.

So maybe he could learn to deal with the snide comments and penetrative stares.

But Sherlock; not coming back? Bah.

 _Impossible._

Mycroft flicks through the file handed to him by the nurse with a sour expression.

"No change then?"

Sarah sighed.

"None. He barely remembers my daily visits. He doesn't even remember the court case… When we tried to take him out of the room, he almost broke his leg resisting; he couldn't bear the idea of Sherlock returning to an empty house."

Mycroft flips the file shut with a loud snap and places it down on the cold, metal bench. Lifting his umbrella off his wrist, he nods his thanks to the two ladies, and with a quick, "Do let me know if anything changes," makes his way down the sickeningly white hallway, twirling the umbrella every few steps.

As Sarah listens to his footsteps fade away, she turns to the file again, trying to pick up something, anything that could help them find John again. There's motion in the corner of her vision and she looks up to the one-way mirror to see him make his way across the recreated apartment to reheat the kettle of tea once again.

John sits down, a fresh mug of tea steaming on the table and the old biscuits replaced- a small sample had confirmed that they were indeed utterly stale and no good. Settling into the chair, he rests his hands on his knees and smiles.

Not long now.


End file.
